The Truth Visible in the Dark
by Rabby
Summary: Artha Penn may want to bury his feelings, but when he dreams they come into sharp focus. His feelings regarding his enemies, his fate, his mentor, and his father.


**A/N**: Takes place somewhere between The Choosing pt 2 and The Return of Drakkus. I like to imagine a much angstier Dragon Booster.

(For anyone reading this for funsies not familiar with DB, Mortis is quite obviously Connor, Artha and Lance's father, though it's not "revealed" until The Return of Drakkus pt 2. So many angsty opportunities... lost...)

– he could see the sky. Unobstructed by towering buildings, it loomed dark and grey stretching around him, sizzling with the electric calm before a storm. The air felt thick with a pulsating energy that made his heart hammer and his fingers tangled themselves around the damp blades of grass beneath him.

_Grass_.

He must be in Sun City to be able to see the sky so clearly, and the grass, a precious and costly commodity only those of high social and financial standing dared afford, seemed to back that suspicion.

But looking around him now he saw no end to the green pasture, no sign of stone structures, or civilization. The sole obstruction between the horizon and sky was a gargantuan willow tree. It was taller than he had ever supposed they could be – ancient as any bone mark – its trunk thick as a building.

As rain began to fall softly, Artha instinctively shrank towards the shelter of the great tree. He watched the raindrops beat against the tendrils of wood and their viridian strands harder until the violence of the rainfall tore through his organic shield and beat against his shoulders. Hearing thunder crackling ominously in the distance, however, he drew back from the foreign surface of the tree, only to collide with a figure standing behind him.

Swiftly, he turned - and found Moordryd.

Antipathy surged through Artha, even before that long mouth pulled back into a crooked smirk.

"Well, well," the white-haired boy sneered, his silver eyes taking him in. "Look who's found his way out of the stables and into the storm."

Grabbing his collar and yanking him forward, Artha was only mildly surprised by his own uncharacteristic display of physical rancour and his body's readiness to hurt. Moordryd and his father were the very reason his life lacked stability. Their constant attempts to light the fuse towards a dragon-human war and offset the delicate balance of peace reached so many centuries ago had upset his simple lifestyle, destroyed Artha's home, and killed his father. Moordryd and his father's greed were what had caused the fire at Penn Stables and claimed his one remaining parent, stolen him from a young boy and made Artha a surrogate parent. Moodryd and his father –

It was Word Paynn's face he was staring into now, and Artha released the man's robes in surprise. He regretted this immediately when the man pressed his advantage and Artha found himself on his back, legs swept from under him, and pinned in a remarkably strong grip by the slight man. Kneeling over him, Word's dark eyes sparked as dangerously as the sky behind him.

"I know who you are, Dragon Booster." His voice was barely more than a purr, but the words seemed to echo strangely around him. Louder and louder, the voice grew unto a thousand others until the sound of it was too much. Wrenching away uselessly, Artha screwed his eyes shut until the sound faded into the comparatively dull roar of the storm now immediately overhead.

But it was Mortis' voice he had heard echo last before the sound had died away, and, he realized with a pang of dread, it was Mortis who sat atop him now, pinning his arms above his head in a crushing grip.

"Let me go…" Artha's own voice was a hoarse whisper and it drew no response. Louder, he croaked out the plea again, knowing guiltily that he meant it more deeply than simply the literal sense.

"_No."_

"Mortis, let me go!"

"_No."_

Artha struggled again but the Dragon Priest held fast.

"Mortis—"

"_You have no choice in this, Artha Penn."_ Though his ethereal voice was calm, it was edged with something dangerous. "_You are the Dragon Booster. You _mustbe_ the Dragon Booster."_

Artha feared the mysterious Priest as much as he loathed him. Mortis held him to the high standard of that title more than anyone else, and criticized him more sharply, too. No matter how small his misstep, how serious his transgression, Mortis would be the first and the last to criticize, and by far the harshest. For all his advice and wisdom, however, he seemed less than eager to step into any given situation and help. He knew Word Paynn better than anyone, it seemed – "old enemies," he had once said. For all that, the man seemed content to remain safely in the shadows and offer no corporeal aide.

The grip around his wrists made Artha wince.

"_It is your responsibility,"_ Mortis continued, _"to prevent a Dragon-Human war. If you are not mature enough to hold yourself accountable, then I will."_ Thick rivulets of rain ran down the expressionless mask that covered the priest's anonymous face, and Artha wondered, not for the first time, what Mortis thought he had to hide from him.

"Dragon Booster be damned," he growled back, blinking water from his eyes. "It's _everyone's_ responsibility!"

"_It's yours."_ This voice was _too_ familiar: his own.

The Dragon Booster, in full armour, was straddling him now, and as Artha stared up at him the figure moved a hand to stroke the boy's face. The touch sent an unpleasant chill through him. This face, he knew, he hated above all others.

Thunder roared louder than any dragon and snapped Artha awake, sitting upright from his reclining position. Despite the downpour outside, it wasn't rain, but sweat, that soaked Artha's features and made him suppress a shiver.

Still reeling from his nightmare, Artha wriggled away from his previous position tangled between Beau's limbs. As implausible as the scene had been, the ominous feelings had felt so real. The feel of grass beneath his fingers felt so lush – though he couldn't gauge if it had been realistic; he'd never had the opportunity to run his fingers through any. He smoothed his hands over the rough texture of the cement floor of the pen he was in, grinding dust between his fingers, trying to etch reality into sharper focus than his dream.

He stepped outside the pen and into the torrent of rain, flinching slightly at the frigid temperature of it. He needed to clear his head. He disliked rain on principle, as did most people dwelling anyplace lower than Sun City. Despite the fact that each drop felt like it could have come directly from the sky, it was more likely that each drop was the runoff of filth, slime, and whatever chemicals being used by the rich and industrious. The rich above paid little mind to the fact that their own dregs would fall upon the poorer beneath. Artha remembered his mother cautioning him against catching rain on his tongue – a lesson he had passed onto Lance himself when it was clear no one else never would.

With their father dead too, he wondered how many lessons he would have to teach his little brother about their lot in life. The only way out was _up_, though Artha keenly despised the idea of being a part of the upper-class , looking down on everyone from their lofty positions. Even if he achieved Mortis' goals - goals in which Artha had no say - and reached the Dragon Racing Academy, rose to fame and fortune… He could never imagine himself fitting in with the citizens of Sun City. Rubbing shoulders with the famous in this underworld he called home felt right and exhilarating, but to do so with Sun City celebrities felt like wearing a disguise.

But Mortis, it seemed, wanted Artha to live life as nothing more than a disguise. Like an actor in a play shifting between roles, never pausing in his dressing room to see his true self in the mirror.

Without a father, Artha Penn no longer had anyone looking out for his own best interests - instead, Mortis stole that position and posed him in whatever role he wanted.

The boy retrieved a broom and got to work on Beau's pen, refusing to allow himself to meditate further - because any more reflection would bring up the one thing Artha knew better than any other: he wished his father had lived and that he'd never met Mortis.


End file.
